Seafire, p.14
Seafire, page 14
Bond interrupted. As yet he had not mentioned the charred paper discovered at Hall's Manor. "I can tell you exactly where they are, for the next four nights at any rate."
This remark got everyone's attention very quickly, so he took them through the entire story.
"Then we get the German authorities to pick up the lot of them in Munich," the Minister snapped.
"I doubt if that would work, Minister," Bond told him quietly.
"Why in heaven not?"
"Well, Minister, to be fully truthful you'd probably get them arrested, though Germany isn't exactly cooperating with us at all levels at the moment. Arrested, they're of no further use to us. Arrest Tarn and those close to him and you charge him with murder, the others with being accomplices -"
"Then we can slap the other serious charges on them when your department's fully sorted out the papers and provided hard evidence. Nothing more simple."
"Maybe, Minister, but there're still loose ends to be tied up. I would like The Committee to grant me one more request."
"We've already given you one hell of a lot of leeway, Bond," Wimsey began.
"With respect, Commissioner, I think that if you grant my new request, it'll save a lot of time in the long run."
"Get on with it, then, Captain Bond. What're you suggesting? That we allow you to go charging to Munich and dash in with guns blazing?"
Bond paused, looking around the long table, taking in the reactions of every member of The Committee, capturing each person's eyes briefly with his own almost accusatory stare. "Please correct me if I'm wrong," he began, his eyes still roving around the various members and noting that, while M and the Director General of the Security Service were absent, it was the latter organization that was represented by three people. His own old service had only Bill Tanner as its delegate, and he was wearing the Secretary's hat as well as being M's deputy.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he repeated. "My understanding of the rules and regulations of MicroGlobe One, the watchdog committee over my department, state that the Minister and one other member can recommend a course of action being taken over short-range activities. If the Minister rubber-stamps some action, he is not required to give an entire quorum of The Committee the details of that action.
"But must do so after four days of the recommendation," the Minister barked.
"After four days, yes," Bond agreed. "Therefore, I would like a meeting, in camera, with the Minister and the representative from the Intelligence Service – now." He knew that he was well within his rights, and as he left the room with Tanner and the Minister, he tried to avoid the pleading eyes of Flicka von Grüsse, who had more than a glimmer of an idea regarding what he was going to ask.
They went straight to the Minister's office, a bare, uncluttered room, one floor above The Committee's reading room.
"Well, what is it you want to request in such secrecy, Captain Bond?" The Minister showed signs of frustration and not a little irritation before they were seated.
"Simple, sir. I want four days' leave, with nobody asking awkward questions as to where I am or what I'm doing."
"And where will you be?"
"I'll be in Germany. Bavaria. Looking over the old Tarn estate, Tarnenwerder, and probably talking with Maximilian Tarn's lawyers in Wasserburg."
"You know The Committee wouldn't sanction that, Bond. You know they wouldn't even discuss it. So why should I recommend it to them?"
"Because somebody close to this Committee – probably a member – has a link to Tarn that goes back a very long way."
"That's outrageous!" The Minister's complexion went from shock white to purple anger. "Can you support these unconscionable accusations?"
"I think I can. Tell me, what time did Sir Max and his crew arrive at Heathrow the day they came back in?"
"On the Dublin flight that gets in at around five."
"And when were you alerted?"
The Minister's jaw dropped. "Not until seven. After we lost them the first time. Or I should say after the police and Security Service lost them."
"Who else knew about the place behind Harrods?"
"Nobody. The Committee and a few officers in the field – and then only after the Security Service discovered that he owned the place."
"Yet Tarn and his group were long gone before anyone moved in to take them. I must say that Max Tarn is either a psychic or he's very well informed."
"This seems ludicrous." The Minister sounded like a man who did not really believe what he was hearing.
"I don't see how he can be operating without help from the inside. I mean the blatant arrival at Heathrow and the way he was lost. Doesn't happen like that, Minister, and you know it. There are other things as well. The only way it makes sense is if somebody is feeding them information."
"Can you point a finger?"
"Not really. If I were asked to bet on it I'd say one of the Security Service people – Thickness, Smith, or Jameson. They'd be our most obvious targets."
"So you really believe that someone on The Committee has been taking backhanders from Tarn? Passing him information?"
"I think it's a matter of common sense. From the beginning Tarn's been tipped off. Just tell me whose idea it was for Fräulein von Grüsse and I to lay some news on him in Cambridge? You must know as well as I do that there was absolutely no way that Tarn could've planned that phony car accident without previous knowledge. He's been playing us for fools right down the line. He even knew exactly when I was to pick up Dolmech. He had a getaway planned for last night. He's not psychic. It has to be someone in that reading room. Tarn's too well informed. Think about it, sir."
"Oh, my God." The Minister had gone white again. "You may well be right. I really have no other option but to recommend that you take a look around Germany. They won't learn anything from me. Go to it, Bond, and good luck."
He asked Bill Tanner to send Flicka out to him, and Tanner nodded, muttering a quick "Take care, James."
He saw the sadness in Flicka's eyes as she came in to join him. "I presume you've convinced him? You're really going on your own?"
"I told you, Flick. It's the only way to work this."
"I love you, James."
"And I you, dear Flicka. Come and help me get organized."
"You will come back?"
"I always come back, my dear. I'm like the RCMP, I always get my man."
"So do I."
"Hell of an engagement party." She almost smiled.
14 – Legal Nightmare
Back in the flat, Bond spent half an hour hunched over the telephone calling Lufthansa and booking a return flight to Munich leaving late that afternoon, then reserving a single room at Munich's Splendid, where he would be well out of the way, particularly hidden from the Tarn party staying at Vier Jahreszeiten. The Splendid had long been the Munich resting place for those who wished to keep a low profile.
Another call assured him of a rental car that he could pick up at the Munich airport, and lastly he dialed a final German number – the Hotel Paulanerstuben, in Wasserburg am Inn. Its main draw was the address, Marienplatz 9 – the same square in which the Tarn lawyers, Saal, Saal u. Rollen, had their offices.
When all these arrangements had been made, he packed a light garment bag, then dragged his special briefcase from its hiding place in a disguised part of the wainscot. The automatic pistol, ammunition, together with the Applegate Fairbairn combat knife and scabbard, all went into the compartment at the bottom of the case, where they would not be detected by electronic security scanning devices. The latest in miniature cameras – which would take clear photographs of documents under most conditions – gloves, a set of lock picks disguised as a Swiss Army Knife, and other items, including maps and documents, went into the main open, top section of the case. He also retrieved everything he needed for his Boldman identity, the one he used often when traveling abroad – passport, wallet complete with credit cards, and several letters addressed to J. Boldman Esq. at a fictional business that was really a front for the Intelligence Service's overseas mail.
He then showered, changed into slacks, a light cotton rollneck, blazer, and a pair of his favorite soft, comfortable moccasins.
Throughout all these preparations, Flicka had remained seated quietly in the bedroom, and it was only when she saw he was ready that she spoke.
"James, we need to talk." She patted the edge of the bed.
"Of cabbages and kings?" he asked with a smile.
"Of what you're going to do; where you're going to be; your entire schedule."
He opened the briefcase and pulled out a detailed map of the Wasserburg am Inn area, similar to a British Ordnance Survey map. "I'll be playing a lot of this by ear, Flick, but here's the general plan." He went through his intended movements, giving rough times and where he expected to be during the next couple of days, after which Flicka spoke again, her tone serious and commanding attention:
"Believe me, James, I understand the reason you have to do this on your own. I understand it, but I don't like it, nor do I condone it. I've left a note with Bill Tanner to that effect. I'm not being difficult, but I think you should have backup close by you. Naturally, I believe that backup should be me. Now, please let's work out a telephone code so that you can at least keep in touch."
It took them only about twenty minutes to cobble together a simple system, for they had used techniques such as this before.
When it was time for him to leave, Flicka hugged him tightly but shed no tears. Nor did she use any feminine wiles to make him feel in the least bit guilty for leaving her out of this small and essential operation. Again, it was one of the pluses of their relationship: Flicka had been an intelligence agent for too long to make any silly fuss over such things.
"Take care of yourself," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, then, softly, "I love you, James."
In the cab on the way out to Heathrow, her very low-key farewell did more to make him feel guilty than all the tears and histrionics that she could have produced. By the time he had checked in at the Lufthansa desk, Bond had already started to wonder about the wisdom of leaving Flicka behind.
The flight to Munich was, as usual, boring, and the German efficiency at passport control and the car-rental desk left nothing to be desired. He collected a cream-colored VW Corrado, driving straight to the Splendid, where the car was parked for him by the staff of the hotel, the facade of which managed to draw anyone's attention away from the place. It was one of the delights of the Splendid that it looked like nothing and yet, for comfort, security, and service, was everything that an incognito traveler would wish.
He ate a dinner so light and frugal that the headwaiter raised his eyebrows and frowned, and by eleven was back in his room. He called Flicka to let her know that he was in Munich with no signs of Tarn watchers on his back, and she was so loving on the telephone that he went to bed decidedly frustrated. It did not stop him from sleeping though, for during his many years as an agent in the field, Bond had perfected the art of putting the world, and professional or personal problems, out of his mind. His head had scarcely touched the pillow before he dropped into a deep sleep from which he woke, totally refreshed, when the telephone rang with his wake-up call at five in the morning.
He was on the road by just after six-thirty, and by seven had left the outskirts of Munich far behind, heading out on the B-304. Before eight o'clock he came into Wasserburg, which seemed to rise from the light morning mists like a great, faded ancient galleon.
With its untouched, medieval atmosphere, the town appeared to be surrounded by water from the river Inn. Wasserburg was built within a few yards of a tight lazy curve in the river, which nuzzles the southern limits of the town's center and enfolds its eastern boundary with great crags of rock, plunging straight down to the gentle flowing water below.
He drove the Corrado into the large parking lot on the northern bank of the river and set off on foot for the traffic-free town center, his garment bag over his shoulder. He walked quickly through the narrow lanes until they spilled out into the Marienplatz, the very center of the town, with its Gothic brick town hall and the fourteenth-century Frauenkirche.
He stopped on the edge of the square, listening to the soft flush of the river less than a hundred yards away, while taking in the extraordinary timelessness of the view. He even caught sight of what remains of the castle, to the south, from which Wasserburg – Water Castle – takes its name.
The town was already bustling: a cassocked priest walked from the Frauenkirche, with its old watchtower, while the few old shops were open and local people could be seen hurrying to them, or leaving with baskets of fresh bread and other produce.
At the Paulanerstuben they showed no surprise at this guest arriving at eight in the morning, but welcomed him in, showed him his pleasant room overlooking the square, and offered him a second breakfast, which he accepted, ruminating on the many four-star hotels throughout the world where he had been treated as a pariah when arriving this early in the day.
Assenting to a second breakfast was not a matter of greed but a way to engage the one elderly waiter in conversation, so the meal passed with skirmishes of dialogue. Bond's German was excellent enough for him to pass as a native, and the exchanges yielded several useful pieces of information. The local people were slightly reserved when it came to foreigners, and he soon learned that this conservative trait had reached a high level during the week.
"It's the new owner of the Tarnenwerder estate," the waiter told him, shuffling around, constantly fiddling with slightly shaky hands. "It's said he's the last living relative of the old von Tarn family, and already he has over one hundred men and women restoring the house. There's no room for these people here in the town. How can there be? Anyway, the ancient boundaries of the estate stop a couple of kilometers from Wasserburg. We can't compete with these workmen as we have none with their skills, so we won't prosper from anything just yet."
"Surely, when things settle down -" Bond began to say, but the elderly man cut him off.
"Something funny's going on." He shook his head in marked disapproval. "Nobody knows how this claimant to the von Tarn name has survived. There's even a story that he's been living in places all over the world under the name Tarn, and this Tarn was supposed to have died, only recently, in a road accident in England. Can you believe any rumors these days?"
He went off to bring a plate of ham and eggs, which he set in front of his customer, carrying on his monologue as though uninterrupted. "Yet here he is. Large as life. Yesterday I saw him. He visited the lawyer Saal, over there," pointing to an old half-timbered building across the square, beside the door of which was a brass plate. "The Saals have managed the Tarn estate for six generations. Old Helmut Saal has blocked any purchase of the place since the end of Hitler's war. I'm not saying he's a liar or a cheat, but I think he would do anything to keep his hands on that estate. It's kept the Saal family in style for a very long time. This new von Tarn could be Saal's man, for all we know. Put there to keep the Saals in the style to which they have become accustomed over the years."
Bond told him that he wanted to see a lawyer with regard to purchasing property nearby, but was brushed aside with a "You should go to Fritz Saal, Helmut's brother. He deals with the purchase of property, but there are other things the town's not happy with."
"Such as?"
"Such as this new von Tarn allowing dubious young people to camp in the grounds of the estate. Some of them look to us like the skinheads who do terrible things in the cities – you know what I mean: attacking foreigners, burning buildings, parading in the streets. Let me tell you, I heard stories of people like that from my father. I can even remember some of them myself. Hitler's people, that's who these young ruffians behave like."
"How long has this been going on?"
"The skinheads? Only a couple of days, but some have come into the town to buy food, and they haven't always been too pleasant to the shopkeepers. We've turned them away from here. Anyway, they'll be gone tomorrow or the day after, I understand. They're here for some rally the master of Tarnenwerder's allowed them to have in his grounds. Don't hold with it myself." The old boy went off mumbling to himself about how it wasn't like this in his day.
No, Bond thought, you're of an age when it was, first, the survival of the fittest and utter obedience to the Nazi Party; then an age when the German people were trying to live down the excesses of Hitler's régime, which had brought your country to its knees. The old man, he thought, had also seen the upsurge of West Germany as the thriving industrial center of Europe, and now the toil and turmoil of a country restored and not split in two. The restoration of a single Germany had brought with it problems and a desperate search for a new identity – or, worse, a return to the old way of the Nazis. He could not blame the waiter for being edgy about foreigners, and these German skinheads were, particularly, foreigners here in Wasserburg am Inn, a town that had survived, almost unchanged, centuries of Sturm and Drang.
After breakfast he returned upstairs, surprised that such an old and beautiful building actually provided telephones in the few available rooms. The local directory was not large, and he found the number of Saal, Saal u. Rollen. Within seconds of dialing, he was speaking to Herr Fritz Saal, explaining that he was a British businessman looking for perhaps a large property in the area. An investment, you understand. For a consortium, you will follow. Naturally, Herr Boldman.
Saal was bright and friendly on the telephone, but gloomy about the prospects, though, eventually, he remembered that there were a couple of estates on his books. Perhaps Herr Boldman could call on him at the office, say in half an hour. Herr Boldman was pleased to accept the invitation.
